Lads of the yard
by jesicahazel
Summary: The story of how Mycroft and Lestrade met, all started by a bit of thin-spiration.
1. August in Febuary

Mycroft haddn't expected a birthday present from his brother, he never did, many years of Sherlock explicitly letting him know his views on not only birthdays in general but _his _birthday in particular had made it quite clear that he was to expect nothing from his younger sibling. So when Sherlock had dramatically swished into his office that February afternoon with a rolled up calender in his leather gloved hand the last thing he had expected was the announcement that Sherlock had got him a present.

It had been a few months after Sherlock had established himself as a consulting detective, something that Mycroft would have gladly taken as a birthday present in and of itself. The work had kept him busy and safe... well, as safe as a Holmes would let themselves be, and at the very least safe from the blasted cocaine. Still, Mycroft had been hoping that his brother would be too busy to come and mock him, at least for a little while.

"As I understand it," Sherlock commented, slapping the slightly gleaming roll of paper against his hand "today is your birthday, and while I don't normally put much stalk in such sentimentality it has recently come to my attention that you have been under stress lately and are in need of such sentiment."

"That's very..." Mycroft searched for the word whilst also for an actual Sherlockian motive for the impromptu visit. "kind of you, Sherlock."

"It has also come to my attention that you have gone on yet another diet and therefore won't be partaking in birthday cake, so as the thoughtful brother I am known to be," Sherlock smirked at the eyebrow now raised on Mycrofts brow. "I brought you some "thin-spiration." Sherlock tossed the glossy calender onto the desk. It skittered gracefully across the wood grain before coming to an artful and seemingly effortless stop in front of Mycroft.

"_The Lads of the Yard"_ a scrawling cursive at the top of the page boasted over a picture of some scantily dressed police men posing near some cautionary tape.

"What is this?" Mycroft asked, barley containing his squeak of indigence.

Sherlock smirked.

"Thin-spiration" and then, with a squish of his black coat, he was gone.

...

Mycroft knew it was a stupid joke and he honestly didn't care. Sherlock was just being childish again, it was to be expected, but for some reason he could not for the life of him fathom Mycroft didn't throw away the calender, he simply stowed it in his desk draw and decided not to think about it for a long while.

A long while later happened to be during his lunch break, as Sherlock had astutely surmised he was not going to be partaking in birthday cake, or birthday anything it seemed except for a scantily dressed salad. Mycroft sighed and pulled out the calender, placing it to the side of the plate he was eating off of. He tried not to think of his motives for looking at the pictures, trying to convince himself that it was purely for amusement but some nagging part of him said that it was something more, something to do with the man in the back with the quiet, confident smile, the man with hair that was on its way to silver.

Mycroft shook his head and forced himself to smirk and laugh at the pictures in the catalog, denying to himself that when it came to August and the man in the back was posed on a motorcycle (clearly his own) he stared a bit longer and tucked the name at the bottom left hand corner away into his long term memory.

Greg Lestrade... interesting.


	2. Brown eyes

After that, Mycroft forgot all about the calender, tucked it away in one of the lower drawers of his desk and continued on with his life. It wasn't as if one little childish prank would change his life forever or one picture of an attractive man on a motorbike would hold his complete attention for the rest of his life. It was just a picture. Mycroft had better things to do then stare at Greg Lestrade all day so he did them.

That was of course before Sherlock went back to the cocaine.

Sherlock had always had a way of making the "better things" that Mycroft had to do stop mattering in moments. It was one of his rather annoying talents and luckily he was completely unaware that he possessed it, Mycroft intended to keep it that way. So when Sherlock OD-ed for the first time in almost a year Mycroft held off his meetings and his saving the world to go straight to the hospital and make sure, even though he was already, surveillance in hospitals was always so useful, that his brother was alright. Something about holding his younger brothers hand while he slept, about seeing the actual rise and fall of his chest up close and to be able to breath the air around his was much more reassuring then a black and white image of a pale young man on a hospital gurney.

So of course Mycroft knew that a certain Greg Lestrade was going to be in Sherlocks room as he had been sitting at the now sleeping mans side ever since Sherlock had been checked in . It had taken Mycroft a moment to recognize the face, now a bit more lined around the mouth although at the moment the brow was deeply furrowed with worry, but when he did he almost hesitated to go to Sherlocks side. Something about that man... Mycroft had sat in the back of the car and tapped his umbrella on the inside of his shoe, making lists of reasons why Greg Lestrade would be a valid person to be interested in.

1) He is apart of Sherlocks life.

2) He is going to be (most possibly) the Detective Inspector of the Scotland yard. One mustn't be too careful in what kind of allies one keeps.

3)...

Mycrofts eyebrows knit together as he ran out of reasons. He didn't often lack motives for interest and while two reasons to be fascinated by Lestrade (there he went, using such a strong verb, mustn't make a habit of that) may have stated other peoples curiosity at their own actions, Mycroft was not satisfied. He continued to think about Greg for the rest of the car ride to the hospital and tried to ignore the slight tightening sensation in his stomach. It had been a long time since he had been excited about anything.

…

Mycroft was not stalling. He was simply getting himself a cup of tea before going in to see Sherlock. He hadn't had anything to eat that day and the tea was going to settle his stomach because he obviously was getting the flu or somethings because normal stomachs didn't flutter like this. No a Holmes stomach at least.

Mycroft sighed as his tea was dispensed by the machine in the hall outside of Sherlocks room. He really hated hospitals, they set him on edge. Mycroft couldn't remember a good memory in a hospital. He had plenty of bad ones, the flash of images in his mind brief and repressed. Mycroft shivered and blamed it on the time of year, pulling at the pockets of his suit as his cuppa finished brewing. There was no waiting any longer.

Mycroft didn't look like an idiot with a crush when he walked into his brothers room, he looked like an aloof older sibling with a very sharp suit. Greg Lestrade turned around in the seat he had been stationed at for the past hour and was taken aback for a moment, the tall figure in the doorway somehow catching him by surprise. He recovered quickly, blinking a few times and standing up to shake this strangers hand.

"Hello," the smile on the police officers face was worn but still very warm and genuine. "I'm Lestrade, Greg Lestrade." Greg held out his hand and Mycroft shook it returning the pleasant smile with half a crooked smirk.

"Mycroft Holmes." The man retracted his hand and leaned against the door way, "I do apologize in advance for whatever my brothers done this time."

Greg couldn't help but chuckle, running his hand through his hair and relaxing a bit.

"Yeah, well, there wasn't any thing you could have done," the smile tightened, his eyes looking at Sherlocks unconscious form on the bed and then dragging away to the terrible lime green walls. "No one could have seen this one coming."

Mycroft nodded, still leaning against the door way. The silence between the three men thickened and Mycroft couldn't help but stare at Gregs intense expression.

After a few seconds of dampening quiet Lestrade cleared his throat and turned his eyes to Mycroft, a strange huff escaping his now amused expression. It amazed Mycroft how he could wear his emotions so clearly and attractively on his sleeve, on any other it would have been... dull, but reading Greg was far too interesting for Mycrofts tastes.

"He should be getting up soon," Greg motioned towards the bed.

"Then I best be off soon." Mycroft looked down at his brother, letting a bit of the fondness he felt for him bleed out into his face, his lips thinned and his eyebrows furrowed.

The silence returned for a few more seconds, Sherlocks paced and heavy breathing closely monitored and Mycrofts face equally monitored by Lestrade.

Sherlock was the one to break the silence with a still sleeping groan. The furrow in Mycrofts brow deepened and his eyes flicked away from his brother back to Lestrade, their blue flashing when he saw Gregs eyes on him.

"I believe it is now soon," Mycroft smirked and smooth out his expression taking a sip of his tea and managing to give it an air of finality.

"It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft let out a little huff of air.

"Mycroft, please, I don't look that old, do I?"

Greg smiled, one eyebrow raising in a way that Mycroft didn't dare interpret.

"No, not at all, Mycroft."

**AN: **I'm not sure how long I'm going to make this fic or even where I'm going with it. I just liked the idea of Sherlock accidentally setting up Mycroft and Lestrade and then eventually his reaction to this and I just accidentally fell in a big pile of shitty writing and Mystade and good god I need a hobby.

Anyways. I hope you liked it. There may possibly be more on the way, Reviews always help, and they may insure a ride on Gregs motorcycle for a poor lowly government worker.


	3. Blue eyes

A/N: I do so love when authors go back to later chapters and rewrite from another characters perspective, so that's what I'm going to do, because I have a feeling that it'll be a lot easier to write from Lestrades POV then Mycrofts.

Greg was the one who found him. He considered it to be his luck, having been the only person on the force that Sherlock even merited a second thought, that he should be the one always told to go "fetch the freak" from his flat in downtown London.

The flat itself was a wreck. Papers and petri dishes thrown about in a way that must have made some sort of sense to the consulting detective but to every other human being looked out right unsanitary. Not only was the flat disorganized, it was small and the walls seemed to sag under a humid age that should have been painted over ages ago. Lestrade figured that Consulting Detective wasn't the highest paying job in the world.

"Sherlock?" He had a key, of course, Sherlock had given it to him for convenience sake. Under any other circumstances, Lestrade would have seen it as a come on but nothing about the pale man who had give him the key had even whispered _I'm seducing you._

Sherlock didn't answer, Sherlock was in the bathroom slumped up against the green tiled tub drooling out of one side of his mouth and murmuring vowels in shallow breaths.

"For fucks sake, Sherlock."

For once in his life Lestrade was resenting his choice in vehicle. A motorcycle was, on the whole, a pretty brilliant piece of machinery, however, it wasn't so effective in transporting gangly ODing consulting detectives. So he had to wait for an ambulance, lord knew how long that was going to take, and pray to whatever higher power existed that those fluttering grey eyes wouldn't close.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of gentle (and sometimes not so gentle, Greg had a right to be mad) slapping and half yelled encouragements to keep away from the bleeding light, an ambulance arrived and Greg forced himself inside, ignoring whatever the paramedics said about regulations. He would be damned if he let this idiot die without his permission.

And then it was quiet.

Greg could safely say that it was the first time that he had experienced true silence in the presents of Sherlock Holmes. Instead of being grateful as someone would have thought he would be he hated it, Greg hated ever single second of dull monotone that thudded in that hospital room. He didn't have many memories of hospitals but the few he did have were not happy ones, he supposed that most people didn't have too many memories of hospitals that they enjoyed... other then births.

He sat there for what seemed like hours.

A shuffling noise at the door made him turn around, he hadn't realized just how focused he had been until the tall, slim man standing in the doorway pulled him from his thoughts, it startled him. Not only that, but this man had something about him, the square jawline, the piecing blue eyes, something about the way that he held himself that Greg could only interpret as raw power. This was a man who knew what he was doing.

Greg cleared his throat, hoping his thoughts were not all showing up on his face and stood up.

"Hello," he smiled, hoping it was charming and not completely idiotic. "I'm Lestrade, Greg Lestrade." He held out his hand and the stranger took it, a firm grip and a crooked smirk. The phrase raw power flashed again in Greg's mind and he prayed to god this man didn't notice.

"Mycroft Holmes," the pieces snapped together in Greg's mind and he choked back an "ah ha". The way that Mycroft held himself was rather Holmsian, he supposed, and there was definitely a family resemblance and it certainly explained what he was doing at Sherlocks bedside. But there was something more to Mycroft's demeanor, something that Sherlock lacked. It intrigued Greg to no end. "I do apologize in advance for whatever my brothers done this time." Mycroft let go of Gregs hand and the detective was surprised to find that he immediately missed its presence. Very unusual, especially for Greg.

He tried to cover it up by chuckling in what he hoped was a smooth manner and running his now empty (lonely empty) hand through his hair.

"Yeah, well, there wasn't any thing you could have done," Lestrade looked back at Sherlock on the bed, still sleeping, it was good for him, he hadn't slept in days. The image of Sherlock, slumped on the floor of the bathroom, looking so vacant, as he often made fun of Greg for being... it haunted him. Greg couldn't look at him for too long and focused instead on the unpleasantly green walls, nausea curling into the pit of his stomach in a way he hadn't experienced since he started training. "No one could have seen this one coming."

Eventually, Greg realized that he had left Mycroft standing in silence for a very long time and that he was probably being very weird. He cleared his throat and hopped that Mycroft wasn't too put out by his apperent lack of social skills.

Then he looked over and those deep blue eye bored into his, just for a moment. It was something similar to the way that Sherlock looked at him when he was trying to figure out where the dectective had been, but there was something different about how Mycroft was looking at him now. It was almost as if he was trying to figure out a complex puzzle... and was completely fascinated by it. Greg had never seen anyone look at him like that. He huffed, it was probably all in his head.

But then again...

"He should be getting up soon." Greg tried not to dwell on those blue eyes as he waved a hand at the bed.

"Then I best be off soon." The blue eyes flickered away and Greg felt a small wave of disappointment crash through him for two separate reasons, the absence of Mycroft's eyes and the soon to be absence of the man himself.

Then a look of softness came over the mans face and the absolute exhaustion that had been hiding under the thoughtful and poised surface burst through like moonshine from London cloud cover. And for a brief moment, Lestrade couldn't breathe. The silence that he realized was probably awkward feel back over them but for some reason he couldn't find it in him to break it, he was too fascinated by this man. How did this combination of stern and angled features turn so stunning when open? Greg was sure he didn't know.

And then, all too soon, the moment was over. Sherlock groaned and Mycroft looked back to Lestrade, his eyes unreadable.

"I believe it is now soon." A short sip of tea and Greg couldn't restrain the desperate, untamed thoughts of _what I wouldn't give to be a cuppa... wait what? _

"It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes." Greg flinched internally, what kind of prat did he want to sound like? Because he was doing an awfully good job at acting like one.

Mycroft huffed, a sound that left a shiver up Greg's arms and legs, funny how that seemed to happen whenever the tall man opened his mouth, a bit annoying too.

"Mycroft, please, I don't look that old, do I?"

Greg rose an eyebrow, hardly knowing what to say next.

_Not at all. You're the only person I've found myself attracted to in this degree for the past two years. _

Or perhaps _Good god no you beautiful man, please take me now. _

"No. Not at all, Mycroft."

The name felt like a promise.


End file.
